


Blooming Nearby

by Rubynye



Series: Works in StoatSandwich's 4F Universe (aka, the Adventures of Steve Rogers, Military Prostitute) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Explosions, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, World War II, no-serum steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve chooses between conflicting orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blooming Nearby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefilthiestpiglet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/gifts), [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Comic: 4F Rogers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248345) by [thefilthiestpiglet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/pseuds/thefilthiestpiglet). 
  * Inspired by [4F](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316277) by [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich/pseuds/stoatsandwich). 



> For [Thefilthiestpiglet](http://thefilthiestpiglet.tumblr.com) and [Stoatsandwich](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com) over at Tumblr, and based on/in Stoat's [_4F_](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/tagged/4f) alternate universe.  
>  Title from [It's This Way](http://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/251509.html) by Nazim Hikmet.

Sergeant Barnes probably didn't mean to give conflicting orders, Steve muses as he stares up the barrel of a HYDRA soldier's large shiny gun. He told Steve to guard the camp while the Howlies were gone, with a straight enough face though Steve knew it was mostly to make him feel useful; Barnes also told him not to get himself killed, and it might have been under blankets and nighttime but Steve still sees the seriousness in those deep blue eyes, feels a ghost of those big hands cupping his face. More than anything it's that memory which convinces Steve to choose the second command, to drop the stick and raise his hands, empty palms turned outwards in a show of surrender.

The squids laugh, tinny and harsh from behind their black helmets. His captor circles behind Steve, whose shoulder blades prickle a moment before a heavy hand thumps between them, shoving him forward into marching. The other five fall in around him, leaving nowhere to run; he can't help balling up his fists, though he keeps them hoisted high, and their only response is more laughter and a heavy metallic prod to his ribs, as the tents crackle into flame behind him and he's hauled off with the rest of the loot.

* *** * 

Steve's head spins and bobs, heavy as an off-center whirligig, but he keeps it raised on his aching neck, teetering on his hands and knees, biting a counter-rhythm into his lip as Six fucks him hard. At least he's pretty sure this one's Six, that he's kept accurate count while each thrust rattles his bones, battering soreness into him. Steve bites his lip harder on each pull-out, as Six's dick drags along his twinging flesh and through his raw sphincter -- it stings especially at lower left, he's probably torn there -- and braces for the next slam in, letting up on his lip to gasp through it. At least Six didn't go for the convenient handles of his bruised-up hips, gripping Steve's shoulders instead, scraping up his back with rough buttons and his nape with scratchy beard-shadow as Six puffs and laughs and keeps fucking him.

Steve presses his fists tighter around his thumbs, pries his teeth out of his lip again, keeps his breathing steady despite the familiar clench gathering in his chest and the whirl intensifying in his air-deprived head. He's pretty sure by now that none of his fingers are actually broken: they spent an insultingly short time stomping his hands while they questioned him about the Howlies' whereabouts. Pretty soon they got tired of his silent act, ripped his clothes off and got down to enjoying their prizes, the air acrid from Dugan's cigars and their voices raucous with Morita's booze as they shoved Steve to his knees and started in on him. Reminding himself that being underestimated's an advantage, Steve didn't bite the first cock pushed into his mouth, squeezed his fists until he barked his knuckles on the concrete floor, and hung on.

It's nearly over. Six speeds up out of rhythm and Steve shudders under the erratic thrusts. He clings to his balance by the skin of his teeth, but he doesn't fall down and he rides Six out too, rolling his shoulders in useless defiance as Six clutches them and shouts his way through coming.

The others cheer lazily as Six puffs into Steve's salt-wet hair, gone so heavily limp Steve's elbows creak. Just before he's about to drop under the weight Six heaves up off him, dragging his dick out as Steve's ass twinges, and smacks him for good measure, one more stinging bruise in the aching symphony. Steve shakes all over, shivering like it's January instead of June, but he doesn't drop to the floor, he doesn't drop his head, he doesn't let any whimpering bleed into his gasps.

He hears footsteps in front of him, winces reflexively and forces his eyes open. It's the likely commander, back in his pants complete with sidearm, pulling out his dirty dick as he grins and curls his fingers, beckoning. Steve updates his plan -- the more distance from the hooting audience slumped at the other side of the room, the better -- bares his gritted teeth and slides forward on skinned knuckles and barked knees. He's probably leaving a trail of blood behind him. He's definitely leaving a spill of spunk, running down his thighs, slicking the floor beneath his calves. He must look a mess.

That's not a useful thought. Pushing it aside, Steve wobbles upright on his knees, pressing his hands against the Lead Squid's canvas-textured trousers, opens his sore-edged mouth and gets to it. Over the roar in his ears and the heavy breathing above him he can hear the slap of someone beating off, satisfied grunts and the occasional coarse shout of encouragement. The ones behind sound relaxed, unguarded as they watch Lead Squid give himself over to his second turn. This looks like the moment Steve's been waiting for.

Pushing a musky breath into his lungs, Steve lifts a hand as if brushing sweat-stuck hair off his temple. Actually, he pries a little something loose from behind his ear, a tiny hollow knife Private Jones glued there four days ago after the last time they all got baths. Steve remembers looking into Gabe's velvety dark eyes as he carefully placed and pasted the tiny sheath, then smiled so brightly Steve leaned in without thinking to kiss him. Gabe always kisses him. Dernier usually does, all French gallantry, and Sergeant Barnes always does, every time, over and over. Thinking of how his lips tingle under kisses and not how sore they are stretched around one more HYDRA dick, Steve presses his knuckles to the thigh before him, hiding the knife in his curled hand as he clicks it up out of its sheath, one, two, three, full extension. He pulls back for another moment and another breath, calling up art-school anatomy charts and Morita's circulatory system diagram.

Then he inhales once more, swallowing around the dick nudging where his tonsils used to be. This is the moment, maybe the last of Steve's short and often dismal life, but at least he got to come to war and serve, to be useful. He might've liked to see the Howlies again, especially Gabe and Morita, especially Sergeant Barnes's soft blue eyes and full-lipped midnight smile, but then he might've liked a lot of things.

Steve takes one last breath, pushes his lips down, and shoves his hands up.

One hand plunges the hollow knife in right through the femoral artery, the other grabs the gun and flips it around. As Lead Squid bellows, Steve drags the knife down from groin to thigh along the line of the artery, splitting it open as long as he can keep his grip. Blood spurts hot and slick over his fingers, big hands flail at his head but Steve crouches down and rolls backwards, sitting hard on his crackling ass on the cold rough concrete as Lead Squid crashes down behind him.

Five shocked faces stare as Steve levels the gun how Sergeant Barnes taught him, sighting with his good eye, and thumbs off the safety. This part's just target practice, for as long as his ammunition lasts.

Fortunately, the gun's fully loaded. He drops four with single chest shots, but the fifth dodges so Steve gets him in the shoulder. He hollers, grabbing the wound, staring at his bloody hand a moment before he glares up at Steve, sets his teeth and charges.

It was so helpful of him to pause like that. Steve puts the last bullet right between his eyes and he slams to the floor, several yards away.

The room's filled with men twitching and gurgling their way from this life. Steve pushes himself to his still-booted feet, the only part of him not aching, and finds himself standing in a pool of blood, Lead Squid motionless and unbreathing behind him. Steve would make sure but he's out of bullets. He drops the gun and blood splashes when it lands.

He just killed six people. Enemy soldiers, in war, but still.

Steve hobbles to the wall as the rattling breaths fade to silence one by one, presses a hand on it to keep himself up, and wraps the other arm tight across his belly, pressing hard until he's reasonably sure he's not about to puke.

Then he raises his dizzy head, fills his tight chest with another careful breath, and gets back to work.

* *** * 

By the time Steve exits the bunker, wearing oversized scavenged pants and shirt, a rocket launcher slung over his shoulder and some HYDRA documents in his hand, he's worked out how to roll his limp into a sort of jaunty stagger that doesn't hurt worse than anything else. Still, when the Howlies appear before he's gone fifty feet, running full tilt with guns out and eyes wild, his knees go a little weak. "Hey, fellas," he greets them, saluting with his fistful of papers as he staggers towards them, "I'm sorry about the camp--!"

Sergeant Barnes reaches Steve first and grabs him by both shoulders, squeezing tight over a couple of unfortunate bruises. Steve almost doesn't care about the pain as he stares up into Sergeant Barnes' eyes, deep and blue as the sea from shipboard, as Barnes stares at him like he does when he lurches out of a nightmare all panting and wide-eyed, focusing on one thing until he remembers he's awake.

Barnes kisses Steve, honest to God kisses him, pulling him up into it, his bruised mouth tingling with the urgent press of soft fierce lips. Steve puffs out something that _isn't_ a moan, he's not swooning, but he can't exactly mind such a nice hello. At least, not until Barnes swipes at his closed lips with a lively hot tongue and Steve wrenches his head away. "Ugh, don't, not yet, you don't know where my mouth's been!"

Juniper and Dugan whoop with laughter. "Don't care," Sergeant Barnes mutters, lips curling up at one corner. The other Howlies've pulled up into a half ring around them, all six smiling sappily at Barnes and his pet auxiliary. Steve can't help smiling back as he looks around at them, though it tugs the sore corners of his mouth.

Then they salute _him_ , all of them, and his mouth drops open.

"Report," Barnes says, his voice crisp and cool again as he peels his fingers off Steve's shoulders.

Steve firms up his spine and his lip, looks his commander in the eye and gets to it. "Six hostiles, all neutralized. I found these papers on the probable leader." Barnes passes them off to Jones without even looking. "I didn't see much else of use, but I didn't really spend that long searching."

"How many left alive, boyo?" Dugan asks.

Steve probably enjoys saying, "Oh, none," and the resulting wide-eyed shock on Dugan's face, a little too much.

Never too much, when Sergeant Barnes smacks his back proudly and wraps a strong arm around him. "Falsworth, Morita?" As they head inside Steve makes to shift the rocket launcher, but Barnes just squeezes him harder, and even the pain is sweet.

Jones whistles as he leafs through the papers. Dugan mutters something to Juniper, who elbows him. Steve should say something, but he can't look away from Sergeant Barnes looking at him. It seems like barely a minute before Falsworth emerges, gone pale, followed by Morita, who's smiling broadly. As he confirms "All clear, Sarge," Morita pats Steve's shoulder between the launcher and Barnes's warm hand.

Barnes nods. "It's twenty-six miles to Nichthierdorf and a bed," he tells Steve. "Gonna make it?"

"Of course." Steve hoists an eyebrow for good measure, and wins a bright flash of Barnes's grin.

"Then do the honors, Rogers." Barnes lets go of Steve, who turns the launcher around. There's no unbruised space on his shoulder wide enough to brace it, so he hefts it anyway and manages to hide his wince. His arm cooperates by not shaking and he fires the launcher like a pro. The bunker blooms into a billowing fire flower, Dernier cheers like a little kid watching fireworks, Dugan and Jones laugh deep and rolling, and something warm blooms in Steve's chest to match, making him smile despite the various aches and sorenesses.

"C'mon, guys," Barnes says, including Steve in his fond command, "Let's get going."

 

* *** * 

 

Curled up in Barnes' bed that night, Steve takes stock. Morita walked him to the Army doc, who clucked over him, cleaned him up, gave him shots and ordered his ass off-limits for five days. Barnes ordered all of him off limits till Steve gave the sayso, then tucked Steve into his bed, acting somewhere between a mother with a sick child and a groom on his wedding night, asking three times if Steve'd be okay before Steve shooed him back out to finish his debriefing.

Staring into the darkness, Steve feels various dull throbs all over and curls a little tighter around himself, but it could've been so much worse. Pain means you're still alive, his Ma used to say. He may have lost the Howlies their gear and he's got a leading new contender for Least Favorite Memory, but he's still alive, he's not stuck in one of HYDRA's brothels, and he's in Sergeant Barnes' bed.

When Barnes returns he slips quietly into the room, like he thinks Steve might've gone to sleep without him. Steve pulls the blanket up in invitation and Barnes smiles a little in the dimness as he strips for bed; he leaves on his tank and shorts, and Steve lets himself roll his eyes. Barnes catches him at it, rolls his in return as he climbs into bed, and gathers Steve up like he's made of spun sugar.

Barnes should know by now Steve's not so breakable. Steve presses himself in tight against Barnes' chest, pushing the dog tags aside to tuck his head under Barnes' chin, and Sergeant Barnes huffs a little, drapes a long leg across Steve's and tightens his hold, strong and warm and just right. Steve listens to Barnes' breathing, steady and even, and beneath it the faint double tap of his heartbeat, slowing to relaxation. Lulled and relieved, Steve eases all over. Now they can get some sleep.

In fact, he's dozing when he hears a deep quiet, "Did good today, kid." He'd almost think he dreamt it but he felt it too, rumbling up from Barnes' throat.

"Thanks, Sarge," Steve mumbles into the soft redolent cotton of Barnes's vest. "Considering I kinda didn't manage to secure the camp."

Barnes snorts. "You followed my most important order. You didn't get your stupid self killed."

Steve smiles a little. "You wouldn't've had to write a letter if I had," he points out. "No one left to get it."

"Shut up," Barnes growls, hold tightening so sharply Steve can't move, can hardly breathe. Steve startles awake, pressing his hand to Barnes' chest. Sometimes he can tell what one of the guys needs before they even realize, but right now Barnes doesn't feel up for it, he's not getting handsy with Steve, just hanging on with that enveloping, almost crushing, downright lovely fierceness. Steve manages to shift his thigh over a little, pressing gently upwards, and finds Barnes isn't hard; after another few heartbeats, with a wordless grumble, Barnes slowly relaxes his hold, in fits and starts like he's fighting himself.

As soon as he can get a proper breath, Steve starts to ask, "Sarge--"

"Don't call me that," Barnes breathes into his hair, lifts a hand to Steve's chin and nudges it up until their gazes meet. "I mean -- not in bed, not when we're alone off duty." His eyes are as bottomless as a clear sky over the Alps. "You don't have to call me that."

"What should I call you, then?" Steve asks, heart hammering with confusion, and some strange excitement.

Barnes shakes his head, his eyes fluttering closed a moment, but when he opens them again there's a smile in them even before it curls his mouth up. "What my friends do. Call me Bucky."


	2. What If, aka, HYDRA brothels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Steve hadn't been able to kill the HYDRA agents and they dragged him off to a HYDRA facility? 
> 
> Written for All_the_damned_vampires

When they're done with him there's no food, no clothes, nowhere to wash their filth off his skin. They give him a dirty helmet full of water and a musty greatcoat, and snicker and elbow each other as they comment in guttural German. Steve seriously considers throwing the helmet in the Lead Squid's face, and instead picks the hair out of the water and drinks it. He has a responsibility to stay alive. (If he stays alive the Howlies might find him.)

Next morning a boot in his ribs nudges him awake; he jerks up on his knees and promptly falls over, cramps radiating from his battered ass down his thighs. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but Steve Rogers hasn't cried in front of bullies since he was thirteen and he won't start now. He glares up from where he's crouched on the floor and clutches what dignity he has left.

It isn't much.

The morning festivities conclude when Steve starts retching, and he manages not to throw up by force of will, or so it seems. The squid who triggered his gag reflex slaps him twice and hefts him, greatcoat and all, throwing Steve over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Steve kicks reflexively and gets a resounding smack on the ass and a growled threat whose meaning is perfectly clear despite the language barrier.

If he stays alive, the Howlies might find him, he thinks, clutching the faint hope, clenching his fists.

Two deeply horrible days later Steve's pretty much passed out when he feels himself bounce down on a mattress. His eyes flash open and the first thing he sees is the iron bedstead, its square black poles projecting upwards from the mattress platform. A steel chain is hooked onto the one by Steve's left leg, and the black-clad figure by the bed fits the manacle on the other end around Steve's ankle. Steve tries to jackknife upwards, to jerk away, and hurts all over so badly he writhes and curls into a knot. A condescending pat on his thigh and he's alone, chained to a bed, inside a little room barely large enough to hold the bedstead, four stark grey walls and a ceiling with peeling paint.

Through the open door Steve can hear noises, screaming, shouting, sobbing. His empty belly clenches in fear. And then the first HYDRA goon strolls in.

Much later, finally alone again for a moment, Steve curls into the tightest ball he can manage and presses his face into the mattress to hide his tears. He hasn't prayed very often since he joined the Army but he prays now, with all the strength left to him, that Bucky Barnes' Howling Commandoes will find him before there's nothing left to find.

* *** * 

Deep down, under all the scar tissue of torture and death and war, in the last tender beating core of his heart, Bucky knows he's been dreaming for five days, ever since they got back from the last raid to find their tents burnt down and Steve gone. He knows what he's been watching course across the inside of his eyelids every afternoon as the Howlies nap and he lies still, unable to sleep. He keeps seeing Steve's face, pale and lined, brightening into delight to see him, Steve's ropy arms reaching for him, his rescuer.

He knows it's a dream but he chases it down anyway.

The reality's a little bit different. Bucky kicks in one more door and the first thing he sees is a broad black-clad squid struggling with someone on the bed. Someone little and pale, and Bucky can _smell_ Steve before he even sees him, one fist around his throat as he shoves both hands against the squid's other wrist, his knee up in the squid's belly, his teeth bared and his eyes ringed with dark bruises. Bucky sees all that even as he lifts his sidearm and drops the squid much more quickly and neatly than he deserves, and sees Steve gasp and drop flat, tossing out a hand, grinning with exhausted triumph like Bucky's Mom did after Becca was born at home.

"Y'made it," Steve grits out hoarsely, his cheeks sunken and his eyes bigger than ever and that's all Bucky sees before he's wrapped Steve up in his arms, shoving his face into Steve's dirty blood-streaked hair. Steve's whole back hitches and Bucky's eyes ache and overflow in sympathy and fury and relief, he hugs Steve tighter as Steve shudders in his arms.

"Sarge?" Bucky hears behind him and glances back to see Dum Dum and Morita in the doorway. "Um," Jim begins, and stops. It's Dugan who manages to report. "We've got five other captives besides Rogers." He's frowning so hard even his mustache's drooping. "He's, uh, he's in the best shape of 'em. I don't even think they can walk."

Morita looks down. Bucky nods slowly, his cheek against Steve's hair. Six naked, battered rescuees for seven commandoes. They probably can't handle that --

Steve goes rigid all over in Bucky's arms, plants his fist on Bucky's chest and _shoves_. Shocked and too-aware of what Steve's been through, Bucky fights down his first impulse and unlocks his hold, and Steve lifts his head, eyes blazing like gas fires. "Then shoot me first," he snarls at Bucky, "shoot me first if you can't get us all back. They're innocent captives, they've been through fucking hell, I'm no better than any of them. Get us all outta here or shoot me too."

Bucky's heart throbs under Steve's hand, tender as a fresh wound. "No one's fucking shooting you," Bucky growls over how badly he wants to kiss this stubborn gorgeous idiot. "We ran for five fucking days to find you, we're not shooting you. C'mon." Steve's battered, beautiful face relaxes into a smile as Bucky shrugs off his rifle so he can drape his jacket around Steve's shoulders. "Secure the facility, willya?" he asks DumDum and Morita, who are hiding their smiles with their hands, badly. "And get Frenchie and his bolt cutters down here. We'll regroup in fifteen and figure out how to get everyone outta here."

"You got it, Sarge," Morita says, and the two of them leave Bucky and Steve alone a moment. Steve looks up at Bucky and Bucky helplessly cradles his face in both hands, looking over his split lip and the dark bruises spotting him from his throat down, looking away from his shining eyes. "You're a mess," he says roughly, his throat thick. He wants to scream and weep and never let Steve go.

"Shoulda told me you were coming," Steve husks out, smiling so wide the scab edging his mouth cracks open. "I'd've gotten dressed up."

The laugh they share is more than half a sob each, and in fifteen minutes the Howlies find them still sitting there on the filthy mattress, holding each other tight.

[And so they get everyone out and when the blonde girl stops crying she proves to be a local who gives Gabe directions, and they get everyone repatriated and/or sent to London for treatment. After eight weeks of healing and every anti-STD treatment available Steve pretty much demands to be sent back to the Howling Commandos, who universally demand him back even when offered a girl instead. So it all comes out okay in the end and I can stop writing this AU of an AU now because oh my God.]


End file.
